Thackray, Jake Filmography

• Jake on the Box
  2006, role: actor , character name: Himself

• Lyrics: play full screen play karaoke
• Worried Brown Eyes - Jake Thackray
• Ulysees - Jake Thackray
• The Vicar's Missus - Jake Thackray
• The Statues - Jake Thackray
• The Poor Sod - Jake Thackray
• The Nurse - Jake Thackray
• The Kiss - Jake Thackray
• The Hair Of The Widow Of Bridlington - Jake Thackray
• The Castleford Ladies Magic Circle - Jake Thackray
• The Cactus - Jake Thackray
• Isobel - Jake Thackray
• The Brigadier - Jake Thackray
• The Ballad Of Billy Kershaw - Jake Thackray
• Sophie - Jake Thackray
• Sister Josephine - Jake Thackray
• Remember Bethlehem - Jake Thackray
• Personal Column - Jake Thackray
• Pass Milord The Rooster Juice - Jake Thackray
• On The Shelf - Jake Thackray
• On Again! On Again! - Jake Thackray
• Leopold Alcocks - Jake Thackray
• Lah-di-dah - Jake Thackray
• Jumble Sale - Jake Thackray
• Joseph - Jake Thackray
• Jolly Captain - Jake Thackray
• Isobel Makes Love Upon National Monuments - Jake Thackray
• Isabella - Jake Thackray
• Grandad - Jake Thackray
• Fine Bay Pony - Jake Thackray
• Family Tree - Jake Thackray
• Country Bus - Jake Thackray
• Caroline Diggeby-pratte - Jake Thackray
• Brother Gorilla (le Gorille) - Jake Thackray
• Bantam Cock - Jake Thackray
• Jake Thackray - Jake Thackray

She always signs her letters "Worried Brown Eyes"
The queen of every problem page at seventeen
Never a week goes by but "Worried Brown Eyes"
Is hanging out her heartachings in the ladies' weekly
magazine
She has got a boyfriend, name of Dickie
Who would like to go too far
You know what Dickies are
And she is asking, is he honourable
Or is he just a prancing Don Juan
But worst of all, she fears
Could she love a man who picks his ears?
She always signs her letters "Worried Brown Eyes"
She says she's got a little mole in a place where
nobody's ever seen
And she asks is it unsightly pretty "Brown Eyes"
Seeking advice on mole-control in the ladies' weekly
magazine
Then of course, there's Dickie, desperate Dickie
Who is growing very bold
His hands are so cold
Well now's your chance oh little "Brown Eyes"
To be passionate and rash and indiscreet
Body and soul, go on, give the lad a treat
Show him your mole
She always signs her letters "Worried Brown Eyes"
Revealing every secret of her shy hygiene
She'd like a bigger bosom, "Worried Brown Eyes"
Thrashing out her tummy bulge in the ladies' weekly
magazine
Dickie's been molesting her and pestering her again
He tries his luck
He's running amok
Every letter's full of tricky Dickie
But this week I feel there's something new
He must have made his move
Something must have happened
Her handwriting's improved
Oh spare some kind of prayer for "Worried Brown Eyes"
Queen of every problem page at seventeen
There's never a week goes by but "Worried Brown Eyes"
Is hanging out her desperations in the ladies' weekly
magazine
Would she do it, could she do it, should she?
Opening up her heartachings so ill-advisedly
"Brown Eyes" that nobody's ever seen

When Ulysses comes home
He always greets me with an open heart
But you will see how Ulysses
Has taken my life apart
I've got a dog called Ulysses
He plays all day in the park
Sniffing at his friends and the chestnut trees
And chasing cats 'til after dark
When my Ulysses comes home (wag wag woof woof)
His tail in the air
His usual exuberance
Is awfully hard to bear
When I stumble home at night I'm jaded and stale
And so I try to take a little repose
I don't want waking up with a happy tail
I don't want a kiss from a big wet nose
When my Ulysses comes home (wag wag woof woof)
He gets on my wick
For Ulysses communicates
His love with a snuffle and a lick
I like to sit in my fireside chair
Watching telly 'til the epilogue
In a semi-coma and without a care
And I would do if it were not for my bloody dog
When my Ulysses comes home (wag wag woof woof)
Like a maniac
Its useless to pursue my viewing
So I've sent my television back
I tried to climb the social scale
And so I organised a little do
Some very posh people came to my cocktail
But at half-past seven my party was through
When my Ulysees came home (wag wag woof woof)
I knew I was sunk
My guests were not at all impressed
And they left when my dog got drunk
I brought my sweetie home one night
And we both knew that this was it
Sipping Chianti by candlelight
We were getting to a very important bit
When my Ulysees came home (wag wag woof woof)
He broke the spell
Intruding on my beautiful
Romance like a hound from hell
My one solution is quick and grim
A little bottle of cyanide
I can't bring myself to get rid of him
I shall have to perform a suicide
So when Ulysees comes home (wag wag woof woof)
Home for his tea
He'll have to cry a little bit

Your Worship…
I want to kiss a vicar’s missus,
Your worship, I appeal to you.
I want to kiss a vicar’s missus -
Any old vicar’s missus will do.
I’ve kissed the wives of tax inspectors
Bank managers’ madames galore
The better halves of rent collectors
One little kiss but nothing more, Your Worship
I really need a vicar’s missus
I can’t get it from my mind
It’s not because I am lubricious
I am religiously inclined
Holy Mother Church has felt my onslaught
I’ve chased the wives of clergy all me life
I once embraced a bishop’s consort
That doesn’t count, she wasn’t his wife, Your Worship
I’ve kissed the wives of many a copper
Sergeants, inspectors, plain clothes men
One little peck, nothing improper
It’s not a thing I’d do again
I’ve kissed my way through most professions
Grocers, landlords, aristocracy
I kissed your wife at the petty sessions
Milord you have my sympathy, Your Worship
I really need a vicar’s missus
I shall be rapid and discreet
Without a vicar’s missus’s kisses
My collection is incomplete
It’s not as if I’d loot or ransack
His property, his premises
I’d never knock a vicar’s knick knacks
Just give his wife a little kiss, Your Worship
I once had one within my clutches
At Evensong she puckered me up her lips
I left the vicarage on crutches
Converted by the curate’s crucifix
But when I go to Hell or Hades
I’ll get the answer to my prayer
’Cos all such vicars and their ladies

Closing time on Saturday it was dark.
Me and Uncle Samuel were lying in the park,
Toes towards the moonlight, noses in the flower beds.
But we know that what we saw, we saw.
She was naked. She was cast in bronze, in bronze,
Standing in the lake amidst the corporation swans.
He was millstone grit. He was Sir Robert Walpole.
And we know that what we heard, we heard.
"Lady is the water cold tonight,
Or does the silky moonlight warm your heart to me?
Or must I hanker for a hundred years again
And never-endingly gaze upon your flanks, your face?"
Well, me and my Uncle Sam, oh Constable, well, we were
right on her side.
Poor darling, she was shy and she had her pride, and
nowhere to hide.
We were there: we saw the aged sire
Shaking with a century of petrified desire,
Climbing from his pedestal all stiff and sooty.
And we know that what we saw, we saw.
He began to tremble and to sway-ay-ay.
We were drunk as penguins but we saw him clear as day
Clumping to the water's edge, Sir Robert Walpole,
And we know that what we heard, we heard.
"Lady is the water cold tonight?
Is it the milky moonlight warms my heart to you?
Well let the devil take the park attendant first!
My heart may burst, so I'm not waiting any longer
lady!"
Me and my Uncle Sam, Inspector, well, then we both got
to our feet.
Poor darling she was sweet and not very old, and
awfully cold.
We rolled up our sleeves, we got to work,
Went for him like buffaloes, like windmills gone
berserk.
He fought like a tiger - we've got the scars to prove
it -
And we know that what we've got we've got.
We hung on like death, we did our best.
He was big and gritty and he fought like one possessed
He was much too good for us was Robert Walpole,
He put us down and out and he strode on.
Lady was the water cold last night?
Was it the creamy, dreamy moonlight warmed your heart?
Oh little nymph, we both did what we could,
But it's so strange: you're infinitely changed today.
Well, me and my Uncle Sam, your Worship, well, we both
feel something's not right:
Today she wears a smile, her face is alight, and her
eyes are bright,
Ever so bright,

Working another man's field,
His only colleague the crawling beetle,
His only neighbour the moorside and the stone wall.
Blind as the blundering mole,
Nothing he did ever came to aught;
Couple of times that he stole he was easily caught.
Poor as the shivering bird,
Seated alone in his cold kitchen
He sings a snatch of an old song which he once heard.
Under his thin eiderdown
Thinking of days that have gone before:
The night years ago in a town he clung to a young whore.
The bramble bush catches his sleeve,
The blackthorn catches his cheekbone;

Click here to download guitar tab
Give us a kiss, just one little kiss,
Sweet nurse, before you go.
My hands are shaking, me nerve ends are aching -
Oh nurse, I need it so!
No, no, no, I've got to go.
I've lots of work to do.
I can't stay, there's other patients
Here as well as you.
Give us a kiss, just one little kiss,
Sweet nurse, I wish you would.
My palms are itching, my arteries twitching,
Sweet nurse, it'll do me some good.
No, no, no, I've got to go.
Please don't think that I'm cool.
I'm not snooty, I'm on duty,
I mustn't break the rule.
Give us a kiss, just one little kiss,
Sweet nurse, please ease my pain.
My head is turning, me knee caps are burning,
Sweet nurse, I shall burst into flame.
No, no, no, I've got to go,
Think what the Matron would say.
Keep your eyes closed and breathe through your nose,
And the feeling will soon go away.
Give us a kiss, just one little kiss,
Sweet nurse, please don't be hard.
My temples are thumping, my war-wound is jumping,
I'm due for the old knacker's yard.
No, no, no, I've got to go.
My medical duties call.
Actually, I shouldn't be

She kissed me like a child; fresh and peckish, like a
child;
She was wild as little strawberries.
But though she kissed me as a child would do,
She clung on a little longer than she needed to.
I did it for a dare: "Go and kiss her for a dare!"
In the middle of the village square!
She was as seventeenish as the month of May.
And her daddy was a butcher in a pie-and-puddings way.
But then this kiss, this kiss, this little skirmish of
a kiss
Was importunately witnessed
By the twitching whiskers and the bulging eyes
Of a couple of the local ladies who were passing by,
Passing by, passing by . . .
Couple of the local ladies who were passing by.
It was misunderstood, this pretty kiss misunderstood
By the squinting sisterhood,
And thus the whisper, whisper went from pinafore to
pinafore,
Every "Tut-tut!" more grievous than the "Well I never!"
before.
Until her daddy heard, her demented daddy heard
Every grisly whispered word.
And stepping fresh from the slaughterhouse the crimson
butcher ran,
The steam around his shoulders still, a cleaver still
in his hand.
"Well, you may buy my pies," he cries, "my puddings,
buy my pies.
"Keep your whippersnapping eyes
"From off the juicy beauty of my daughter, who
"Is a tit-bit far too tasty for the lips of the likes
of you,
"Likes of you, likes of you . . .
"Far too tasty for the lips of the layabout likes of
you."
He swung his cleaver high, swung his whistling cleaver
high,
And his cry was agonising:
"I shall follow King Solomon's decision, inasmuch
"As I'm off to split you down the middle, easy,
collarbone to crutch!"
But with a single bound, his daughter, with a springy
bound
Flung her arms and legs around me, singing,
"Split all you wish to, Daddy, let the cleaver fall,
"And you shall split me likewise, precious titbits and
all."
"I am my own to give, nobody else but mine to give.
"Perhaps I'll give it to this whippersnapper,
"Backbone to belly-button, tongue-tip to toe,
"From nipples up above to bushy triangle below,
"Down below, down below ...
"My tangled diamond down below."
Which came as news to me, both to the butcher man and
But who was I to disagree?
What with my nose in her breastbone, her haunches in my
hand
And a chopper in the offing, there was a lot to
understand.
The cleaver never, never fell. The jealous cleaver
never fell.
And although my eyes were elsewhere,
By a pressing little message of her elbows and thighs
She'd let me know her daddy'd gone, tears in his eyes.
She kissed me like a child; fresh and peckish, like a
child;
She was wild as little strawberries.
But though she kissed me as a child would do,
She clung on a little longer than she needed to,
Needed to, needed to . . .

She was a widow in Bridlington, she was, was the widow
of Brid,
Small and bonny at forty-two,
With eyes of very unsettling blue,
And what she thought she ought to do
She did, she did, she did;
Whatever she thought she ought to do
She did, did the widow of Brid.
"My only darling's dead, he is, and all my children
grown;
"The house has emptied, all the love-birds flown.
"In place of widow's weeds I'll let my coal black hair
grow long:
"As glossy as a blackbird's wing, as cocky as his
song."
She found that she could please herself, she could,
could the widow of Brid:
Swim in the sea when she felt hot,
Stay in bed when she did not.
And she began to laugh a lot,
She did, she did, she did,
To sing and dance and laugh a lot,
She did, did the widow of Brid.
And sometimes she would drop the shopping, leave the
bed unmade
And sit till evening on the esplanade.
She'd sometimes go to church and call on Jesus by his
name.
She fed as any blackbird would, whenever hunger came.
She learned to play the violin, she did, did the widow
of Brid,
And Saturday night in a drinking shop
She jumped upon the counter top
And fiddled till the dancers dropped,
She did, she did, she did,
Stomping upon the copper top
She did, did the widow of Brid.
And she was fond of fishing boats and all their beardy
crew
And partial to a salty kiss or two.
And some of them would gruffly whisper, "Marry me and
stay".
But blackbirds do their singing from a different bush
each day.
She had a massive motorbike, she had, had the widow of
Brid,
And so she could, when so she wished,
Ride back home early-morningish
With her hair in the air and smelling of fish,
She did, she did, she did,
And every time of a different fish,
She did, did the widow of Brid.
And though she did no harm the neighbours sniffed, as
neighbours do,
And day by day a cankerous rancour grew.
And many a pair of front-room curtains twitched and
shook with rage,
For she was wild as blackbirds are and they were in a
cage.
They came and broke her window panes, they did, of the
widow of Brid,
Spat upon her cycle shed,
Dragged her out of her Sunday bed
And cropped her hair and shaved her head,
They did, they did, they did;
They chopped the hair and shaved the head,
They did, of the widow of Brid.
And when her sobs and hiccups stopped she tidied
everywhere,
She cleaned the shed, she swept up all the hair.
Some few of them came back in shame to ask her would
she stay,
But if you ever startle blackbirds, blackbirds go away.
She sold up house and bought a wig, a wig, did the
widow of Brid,
And unrepenting, undeterred,
She thundered off to cause a stir
In poor old bloody Scarborough,
She did, she did, she did.
"Forget the spit and the window pane.
"Bugger Brid! I'm still the same.
"My hair will always grow again."
It did, it did, it did.
"My hair will always grow again."

The Castleford Ladies’ Magical Circle meets tonight,
In an upstairs aspidistra'd room that's lit by
candlelight,
Where Elizabeth Jones and Lily O'Grady
And three or four more married ladies
Practice every week unspeakable pagan rites.
Dressed in their Sunday coats and their flowerpot hats,
Respectable middle-aged ladies - running to fat, at
that -
There's Elizabeth Jones and Lily O'Grady
And three or four more married ladies,
Each with a Woolworth's broomstick and a tabby cat.
But they don't waste time with a ouija board or a
seance now and again, no.
None of your wittering, twittering, petty poltergeists
for them. No,
Elizabeth Jones and Lily O'Grady
And three or four more married ladies
Prefer to be tickled by the whiskery chins of bogey
men.
Their husbands potter at snooker down the club,
Unaware of the devilish jiggery-poke and rub-a-dub-dub,
While Elizabeth Jones and Lily O'Grady
And three or four more married ladies
Are frantically dancing naked for Beelzebub.
And after the witches' picnic and the devil's grog,
After their savage pantings, their hysterical leap-
frog, well,
Elizabeth Jones and Lily O'Grady
And three or four more married ladies
Go back home for cocoa and the Epilogue.
So be careful how you go of a Saturday night:
If you see a little old lady passing by, it very well
might be
Elizabeth Jones or Lily O'Grady
Or one of those satanical ladies.
Their eyes are wild and bright, their cheekbones all
alight.
Don't go where they invite,
Because the Castleford Ladies’ Magical Circle meets

When I and my new love, my true love, got married,
Our love, our true love, very nearly miscarried -
And one of the chief, the contributory factors
Was when my dear wife fell in love with a cactus.
On our wedding day my Auntie Ivy gave us both a little
pot,
A plastic what-not,
Which contained a spiky cactus. As a present it was
tactless,
But my wife, my life, my golden girl, she loved it from
the start.
Though it was old and mouldy she took it to her very
heart.
My Snow White, my Aphrodite, my pocket Venus!
‘Twas then that this venomous thing came between us.
When we had so much to delect and distract us
Oh why did we cherish a perishing cactus?
At first she just felt sorry for this horrid, squalid,
lumpish parasite.
A rash compassion
For her feelings got beyond her. Every day she grew
still fonder
Till this sickly, tickly, little squirt had got the
household quashed:
Rent unpaid; my tea not made; my shirts, my socks not
washed.
My poor heart was bleeding from multiple fractures:
A dupe and a boob and a cuckold to a cactus.
She gave up her duties, her food and her slumber
For this potted hedgehog, this son of a cucumber!
In spite of all her care, her lavish blandishments, the
creature still declined.
It pined for something.
It defied all kinds of fertiliser. It began to fade
away and die.
And only I knew why; I recognised the state.
And it's a fact that what that cactus lacked was a
prickly little soul-mate.
The feeling of grief's not confined to us only:
Like me this poor vegetable was just lonely,
For they need exactly those things which attract us.
So I went and bought him a little lady cactus.
We placed them spiky cheek to spiky cheek upon our
kitchen window sill
And then withdrew. We knew
True love would run its course - and we perforce had
something similar to do.
And, truth to tell, well, well within the hour
My auntie’s antisocial plant put out a happy cactus
flower.
True love is in bloom now, and everything's very nice:
No thorns in our fireside, no spikes up our paradise.
My household is flourishing now, and in fact I

Nobody else is loved so well by Isobel, by Isobel,
Oh, nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
She's my rose, my asphodel, my demoiselle, my Jezebel,
But nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
I admire those men who know about mathematics,
Who calculate and cipher and compute.
I used to think that logarithms were things that
scuttled about in attics
And surds were little flowers with square roots.
What boots it?
Nobody else is loved so well by Isobel, by Isobel,
Oh, nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
At geometry I don't excel: my triangles go parallel.
But nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
I marvel at musicians: maestros, virtuosos;
They're sensitive and deft beyond belief.
The only tune that I know well is Ring-a-Rosoes
And I can only whistle it through me teeth.
But good grief!
Nobody else is loved so well by Isobel, by Isobel,
Oh, nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
I couldn't produce a tuneful decibel, not even if I
strained like hell.
But nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
Some can swim for miles and dive from dizzy heights,
From deep and stormy seas they never shrink.
I am not amphibious or watertight,
My function in the water is to sink.
But just think!
Nobody else is loved so well by Isobel, by Isobel,
Oh, nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
Upon the sea the slightest swell makes me expel one
hell of a yell.
But nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
Some men are sophisticated, gay and hearty;
Polite and poised and witty, they're such fun.
I am never welcome to a cocktail party:
I drink too much or leave my flies undone.
But thumbs up!
Nobody else is loved so well by Isobel, by Isobel,
Oh, nobody else is loved so well by Isobel but me.
I can't hold my whisky well and I've not got many jokes
to tell.
But nobody else is loved so well by ever-loving Isobel,
My one and only Isobel, my little Iso-Isobel -
All other women I repel
‘Cause I can't spell and I smell as well,

Up where we live we've got everything,
We've got a cuckoo and a nightingale,
We've got a shop and chapel and a boozer
And a little jail.
We've got a brain-sick witch and a cricket pitch,
We've got a pump and a duck pond here,
A vicar and a blacksmith and a local idiot
And a brigadier, a frigging brigadier.
Let the caravans come, let the charabancs roll!
Tripping our hills, picking our daffodils
Getting stuck in our holes. We don't care.
We don't mind trippers and scouts and ramblers,
They can come and stand in the rain all day.
They give us money and beer and a right good belly
laugh,
Then they go away.
But who pins medals on the chests of our children?
Who pins a rose on our biggest pig's ear?
Who pins a little red poppy on our cenotaph?
A brigadier, a frigging brigadier.
Let the bearded wonders come.
Whether we like or not
They squat in the cottages of our ancestors
Making bloody pottery! We don't care.
We get drunk, we get rowdy,
And we get nicked when the flatfeet come;
How are we judged? By whose almighty
Finger and thumb?
Not by Bacchus's, not by Jupiter's.
Not by Solomon's. We're summonsed to appear
Underneath the beak of his week-a-day worship
A brigadier, a frigging brigadier.
Let the rain-god come, spitter and spat and spout.
At least he's a god who is impartial:
He waggles it about. We don’t care.
On a Sunday when the vicar admonishes our wickedness
Whose "Amen" resounds down the aisle?
Who reads the Sermon on the Mount with a Holy
Ghost of a smile?
Who takes the wine? Who takes the biscuit?
Who brings the plate? Who bends the ear?
Singing of his hopes for a new Jerusalem,
A brigadier, a frigging brigadier.
Let God's pale archangel the Grim Reaper come;
He can hack my bones, he can step upon my gravestone,
He can kiss my bum. I don't care.
If he wants my chimneys, if he wants my acres,
If he wants my trout, if he wants my grouse,
If he wants gold and silver titbits,
He's got the wrong house.
He can rattle my latch, bang my knocker,
There's not one whit of a titbit here;
Go tap with his dainty sickle on the windowpane
Of the brigadier,

He was small and baggy-trousered, he was nondescript
and shy,
But in his breast there burned a sacred flame,
For women melted and surrendered when they looked into
his eyes.
(Little Billy Kershaw was the name, by the way,
He worked as a country ploughman, so they say.)
Oh Lothario and Casanova, mighty Don Juan,
Those legendary goats of days of yore -
Billy was better, with his eyes closed, on one leg and
with no hands!
(A trick which he could actually perform, by the way,
Spectacular, but dodgy, so they say.)
He never did it for the profit of it, never for
applause,
Only the silvery laughter that it caused.
There was a difference in that Billy Kershaw never
picked the best,
The beautiful, the golden ones that most men would,
But the ugly ones, the poorest, the despised, the
dispossessed.
(Where else would a hunchback get a cuddle, by the way?
Harelips can kiss, or so they say.)
And so the shop-girl with the whiskers, or the limping
shepherdess,
The squinting barmaid (her with the pocky skin),
Even the horse-like countess with the teeth and meagre
breasts
(Which in fact had often harboured Billy's chin, by the
way,
Haughty but snug, so they say).
He never did it for the profit of it, never for
applause,
Only the common comfort that it caused.
Many a poor distracted Catholic, rating Billy over
Lourdes,
Came smiling down his staircase, all her frenzy gone.
And the husband, far from angry, would be chuffed that
she was cured
(And buy him a pint in the local later on, by the way;
Horses for courses, as they say).
He responded to the colonel's widow's desperate appeal
In the colonel's house upon the colonel's tiger skin,
And in the potter's shop, the potter's wife upon the
potter's wheel
(Which was steadily continuing to spin, by the way,
A right tour de force, so they say).
But never ever for the profit of it, never the
applause,
Only the passing happiness it caused.
But soon the news of Billy Kershaw and his life-
enhancing powers
Became across the county widely known,
And by his cottage gate the coachloads waited patiently
for hours.
(The drivers made a bundle going home, by the way,
Their caps were full of silver, so they say.)
And the village did a roaring trade in teas and
souvenirs,
In ash trays and the local watercress.
Until Billy, disillusioned, simply ups and disappears.
(Leaving no forwarding address, by the way,
Could be anywhere at all, or so they say.)
But it was not for the profit of it, not for the
applause,
Only the consolation that it caused.
If there should be a sad, neglected, wretched woman in
your life,
It could well be that Billy's near at hand;
Perhaps your auntie or your daughter, or your mother or
your wife.
(And when did you last see your grandma, by the way?
No genuine case is ever turned away.)
He's no rascal, he's no charlatan, no mountebank, no
snob;
Whoever you are, he'll treat you just the same.
He is small and baggy-trousered, and he does a tidy
job.
(Little Billy Kershaw is the name, by the way;
He worked as a country ploughman, so they say.)
But never ever for the profit of it, never the
applause,
Only the common comfort that it caused.
If you find that Billy's ballad is extravagant, or
trite,
Offensive, irrelevant, or untrue,
That may well be, but here's a moral which will make us
feel all right
(A moral which may well apply to you, by the way;
Takes one to know one, as they say).
If you're ugly, if you're weak, or meek, or queer, form
a queue
And the rest of us will travel from afar
And systematically we'll do to you what Billy used to
do -
But more regular and always twice as hard, by the way,

I should like to know,
I'd like to find out,
What my Sophie thinks about.
Lying here in bed
I may not decide
What goes on inside her head.
I know that she likes me 'cause she says so often
And besides, if she didn't, well she wouldn't be here.
And every now and then she goes all inscrutable
And I don't like it when she doesn't seem so near.
Yes, I should like to know,
I'd like to find out,
What old Sophie thinks about.
Does she tell me lies?
Is she on the make?
What's behind those vacant eyes?
I know that she doesn't like going to parties
And I know that she likes drinking whisky mac.
I know that she's daft about liquorice allsorts.
I know that she likes it when I stroke her back.
But I should like to know,
I'd like to find out,
What my Sophie thinks about.
Breathing in my hair,
Never says a word.
Is my little bird all there?
She's got a lovely bottom and I prize it highly;
I've studied its proportions time and again.
I know her snowy breasts and her deep, dark navel,
And I'm no stranger to her abdomen.
Oh, I should like to know,
I'd like to find out,
What old Sophie thinks about.
There's a question mark,
There's a mystery,

Oh, Sister Josephine,
What do all these policemen mean
By coming to the convent in a grim limousine
After Sister Josephine?
While you, Sister Josephine,
You sit with your boots up on the altar screen.
You smoke one last cigar.
What a funny nun you are!
The policemen say that Josephine's a burglar in
disguise,
Big bad Norman - fifteen years on the run.
The sisters disbelieve it: No, that can't be Josephine;
Just think about her tenderness towards the younger
nuns.
Oh, Sister Josephine,
They're searching the chapel where you've been seen,
The nooks and the crannies of the nun's canteen
After Sister Josephine.
While you, Sister Josephine,
You sip one farewell Benedictine
Before your au revoir.
A right funny nun you are!
Admittedly her hands are big and hairy
And embellished with a curious tattoo.
Admittedly her voice is on the deep side,
And she seems to shave more often than the other
sisters do.
Oh, Sister Josephine,
Founder of the convent pontoon team,
They're looking through your bundles of rare magazines
After Sister Josephine.
While you, Sister Josephine,
You give a goodbye sniff of benzedrine
To the convent budgerigar.
A bloody funny nun you are!
No longer will her snores ring through the chapel
during prayers,
Nor her lustful moanings fill the stilly night.
No more empty bottles of altar wine come clunking from
her cell.
No longer will the cloister toilet seat stand upright.
Oh, Sister Josephine,
Slipping through their fingers like Vaseline,
Leaving them to clutch your empty crinoline
After Sister Josephine.
While you, Sister Josephine,
Sprinting through the suburbs when last seen
Dressed only in your wimple and your rosary.

It was ever so cold.
She was far away from home.
She was not very old.
She was only a shabby little country girl.
So long ago.
It seems so far away; so far away.
But even so
I know your nightingales remember her still.
Your pussy-willow and your daffodil,
Even your stony old hills
Remember Bethlehem.
She was awfully weak
For the journey'd been hard.
She had nowhere to sleep;
She lay down in a small dark farmyard.
So long ago.
It seems so far away; so far away.
But even so
I know your lowly hedgehog knows what it means.
Fish that twitch in your greeny streams,
Even your shaggy old trees
Remember Bethlehem.
When she lay herself down
She must’ve been afraid.
There was only the ground;
She had her baby in a painful darkness.
So long ago.
It seems so far away; so far away.
But even so
I know the rain was there when her time had come.
The wind won’t forget what the girl has done.
Even the sulky old sun
Remembers Bethlehem.
When she looked at the child
The very first time
I suppose that she smiled,
And it's my guess that Mary cried a little.
So long ago.
It seems so far away, so far away.
But even so
I've got the flesh and the blood to remember them by:
Him in my mind, and her in my eye;
Every reason why I
Remember Bethlehem.
Bethlehem.
1971 "Live Performance" LP version, also on the "JT
Project" CD
It was ever so cold.
She was far away from home.
She was not very old.
She was only a shabby little country girl.
So long ago.
It seems so far away, so far away.
But even so
I know your nightingale remembers her still.
Your pussy-willow and your daffodil,
Even the stony old hills
Remember Bethlehem.
She was awfully weak
For the journey'd been hard.
She had nowhere to sleep;
She lay down in a small dark farmyard.
So long ago.
It seems so far away, so far away.
But even so
I know your lowly hedgehog remembers her still.
Your pussy-willow and your daffodil.
Even the stony old hills
Remember Bethlehem.
When she looked at the child
For the very first time
I suppose that she smiled,
And it's my guess that Mary cried a little.
So long ago.
It seems so far away, so far away.
But even so
I've got the flesh and the blood to remember them by:
Him in my mind and her in my eye,
And every reason why I
Remember Bethlehem.

Right behind the headlines of the papers there's a
space entitled Personal.
And since I'm young and sensitive it's always there I
turn to first of all
For in between the vibro-massage, sauna baths, the
rubber goods, the corsetry
Someone sends a message that is classified as
advertising Agony.
Agony will always find a way.
You read there every day
True-life love stories, taken short.
Agony at seven-and-a-kick a time,
A stifled sob a line,
A list of breaking hearts and surgical supports.
"Molly, will you please come home. I miss you. Will you
please forgive me?
I love you very much and I am sorry for what I did.
Love, Sidney."
"Artistic photographs, plain paper covers, fifty-nine-
and-sixpence, postage free."
"Unsightly hair on arms and legs and faces is removed
quite painlessly."
Who knows if wayward Molly will return?
Does Sidney really yearn?
And if he does, does Molly care?
What quarrel set them at each other's throats?
Did Sidney send for postcards through the post?
Or did Molly grow superfluous hair everywhere?
"Widow, 46 would like sophisticated gentleman to
contact her.
Similar interests and with a view to friendliness.
Motor car preferred."
"Mrs Ivy Armitage thanks all her friends for kindnesses
when times were hard."
And "The Honorable Dicky Cholmondley is not sending
anybody any Christmas cards."
"Dynamic methods Strengthen and Refine
The Power of your Mind"
In case your memories are none too good;
And if you cannot manage on your own
Take out a personal loan.
There's no security, it's understood.
"Seven days’ free trial for an anti-nuclear shelter. No
obligations at all."
And there's news of debutantes coming out with all the
customary Belgrave balls.
Ten shillings reward: Box No. 33 has gone and lost her
budgerigar.
"Happy Birthday darling Sheila from your Mummy and your
Daddy, wherever you are."
Right behind the headlines of the papers there's a
space entitled Personal
And for those who get the agony, that's the place to

Gone are the old, bold, golden days
When the big hob-nobs were always on the rampage.
Nobs today don't do the things they used.
Pass milord the rooster juice.
Our noble upper crust has got the crumbles;
Their escutcheons are not gleaming quite so bright;
Their rampant crests are withering and wilting;
And it serves the cocky thoroughbreeders right!
Oh no, oh no, no. Sir Jasper!
Gone are the days when a hot and spunky duke
Could set the rafters ringing and the duchess whooping.
The lordly lustre is faded and forlorn.
Pass milord the powdered rhino horn.
No more wild unbridling nights up at the chateau,
No more jump and tumblings in the good old style.
If tonight her ladyship should raise an eyebrow
His lordship would only raise a smile.
Oh no, oh no, no. Sir Jasper!
Gone are the days when a belting earl
Could gobble up a girl with a twirl of his moustachios.
The lordly whiskers have got the dreaded droop.
Pass milord the stallion soup.
Pretty damsels will go sadly under-ravished;
Gamekeepers will grow rusty in their prime;
There'll be no more dramas on the bridge at midnight.
How will the working classes pass the time?
Oh no, oh no, no, Sir Jasper!
Gone are the olden, golden days of yore
When you could jam your jodhpur in a village maiden's
doorway.
The lordly riding boots don't glint the way they used.
Pass milord, p-p-p-pass milord,

She's been left on the shelf, but don't go think she's
broken-hearted.
Although she lives by herself, she doesn't bother with
tears.
In the morning she will fry the kipper, mash the tea,
Look through the window and wish that she had company.
But, nevertheless, she gets by on her own:
There's just one chair underneath the table.
She eats her breakfast alone
And she doesn't bother with tears.
People gossip and they say
That happiness is passing her by.
She's quite happy in her own small way,
Although she tends to sigh a little.
She's been left on the shelf, but don't go guessing
she's broken-hearted.
Although she lives by herself, she's got no time for
tears.
In the afternoon she walks in the park, looks at the
trees,
Sniffs the lilies and she wishes she'd got company.
But, nevertheless, she gets by on her own:
Feeds the ducks from the same old paper bag.
She walks home alone,
And she doesn't bother with tears.
People gossip and they say
That happiness is passing her by (goodbye!).
She's quite happy in her own small way,
Although she tends to sigh a little.
She's been left on the shelf, but don't go reckon she's
broken-hearted.
Although she lives by herself, she's got no need for
tears.
In the evening she will watch her telly regularly,
Sip her Guinness and wish that she had company.
But, nevertheless, she gets by on her own:
Talks in her sleep to her hot-water bottle.
She, she wakes up alone,
But she doesn't bother with tears,
No need to bother with tears,

I love a good bum on a woman, it makes my day.
To me it is palpable proof of God's existence, a
posteriori.
Also I love breasts and arms and ankles, elbows, knees;
It's the tongue, the tongue, the tongue on a woman that
spoils the job for me.
Please understand I respect and admire the frailer sex
And I honour them every bit as much as the next
misogynist.
But give some women the ghost of a chance to talk and
thereupon
They go on again, on again, on again, on again, on
again, on again, on.
I fell in love with a woman with wonderful thighs and
hips
And a sensational belly. I just never noticed her lips
were always moving.
Only when we got to the altar and she had to say "I do"
And she folded her arms and gathered herself and took
in a breath and I knew
She could have gone on again, on again, on again till
the entire
Congregation passed out and the vicar passed on and the
choirboys passed through puberty.
At the reception I gloomily noted her family's jubilant
mood,
Their maniacal laughter and their ghastly gratitude.
She talks to me when I go for a shave or a sleep or a
swim.
She talks to me on a Sunday when I go singing hymns and
drinking heavily.
When I go mending my chimney pot she's down there in
the street,
And at ninety-five on my motorbike she's on the pillion
seat
Wittering on again, on again, on and again and again.
When I'm eating or drinking or reading or thinking or
when I'm saying my rosary.
She will never stop talking to me; she is one of those
women who
Will never use three or four words when a couple of
thousand will easily do!
She also talks without stopping to me in our bed of a
night;
Throughout the sweetest of our intimate delights she
never gives over.
Not even stopping while we go hammer and tongs towards
the peak -
Except maybe for a sigh and a groan and one perfunctory
shriek.
Then she goes on again, on again, on again on and I
must
Assume that she has never noticed that she's just been
interrupted.
Totally unruffled she is, and as far as I can see
I might just as well have been posting a letter or
stirring up the tea!
She will not take a hint, not once she's made a start.
I can yawn or belch or bleed or faint or fart - she'll
not drop a syllable.
I could stand in front of her grimly sharpening up an
axe,
I could sprinkle her with paraffin, and ask her for a
match -
She'd just go on again, on again, on again even more.
The hind leg of a donkey is peanuts for her, she can
bore the balls off a buffalo.
"Mother of God," I cried one day, "Oh, let your kingdom
come
"And in the meantime, Mother, could you strike this
bugger dumb?"
Well, believe it or not, she appeared to me then and
there:
The Blessed Virgin herself, in answer to my prayer,
despite the vulgarity,
Shimmering softly, dressed in blue and holding up a
hand.
I cocked a pious ear as the Mother of God began.
Well she went on again, on again, on again, on, and I
Will have to state how very much I sympathise with the
rest of the family.
Give some women the ghost of a chance to talk and
thereupon
They go on again, on again, on again, on again,
And again, and again, and again, and again
They will go on again, on again, on again, on again, on

Leopold Alcox, my distant relation,
Came to my flat for a brief visitation.
He's been here since February, damn and blast him!
My nerves and my furniture may not outlast him.
Leopold Alcox is accident prone,
He's lost my bath-plug, he's ruptured my telephone.
My antirrhinums, my motorbike, my sofa:
There isn't anything he can't trip over.
As he roams through my rooms, all my pussycats scatter,
My statuettes tremble, then plummet, then shatter.
My table-lamps tumble with grim regularity.
My cut glass has crumbled - and so has my charity.
Leopold Alcox, an uncanny creature,
He can't take tea without some misadventure:
He looks up from his tea cup with a smirk on his
features
And a slice of my porcelain between his dentures.
He's upset my goldfish, he's jinxed my wisteria,
My budgie's gone broody, my tortoise has hysteria.
He cleans my teapots, my saucepans, with Brasso
And leaves chocolate fingerprints on my Picasso.
Leopold Alcox, never known to fail,
Working his way through my frail Chippendales.
One blow from his thighs, which are fearsomely strong,
Would easily fracture the wing of a swan.
I brought home my bird for some Turkish moussaka.
Up looms old Leopold; I know when I'm knackered.
He spills the vino, the great eager beaver,
Drenching her jump-suit and my joie de vivre.
Leopold Alcox. stirring my spleen;
You are the grit in my life's Vaseline.
A pox on you Alcox! You've been here since Feb'ry.
Go home and leave me alone with my debris.
So Leopold Alcox, my distant relation,
Has gone away home after his visitation.
I glimpsed him waving bye-bye this last minute -

Now we're agreed that we're in love
We'll have to face the lah-di-dah,
The eyewash, all of the fancy pantomime.
(I love you very much.)
I'll try love, I'll bill and coo
With your gruesome Auntie Susan
I'll stay calm, I'll play it cool;
I'll let your tetchy uncles
Get me back up, cross my heart.
And I shan't get shirty when they say I look peculiar.
I'll be nice to your mother,
I'll come all over lah-di-dah,
Although she always gets up me nose.
(I love you very much.)
And so I'll smile and I'll acquiesce
When she invites me to caress
Her scabby cat;
I'll sit still while she knits
And witters, cross my heart,
And I shan't lay a finger on the crabby old batface.
I'll be polite to your daddy,
Frightfully lah-di-dah,
Although he always bores me to my boots.
(I love you very much.)
And so I won't boo and hiss
When he starts to reminisce
I won't drop off, I won't flare up;
The runs he used to score
And how he won the war, cross my heart,
But I'll have to grit me teeth when he goes on about
his rupture.
I'll behave at the wedding breakfast
I'll be lah-di-dah
So help me! Hearty toasts and risky jokes!
(I love you very much.)
So help me, I'll force a laugh
For the flicking photographs
So have no fear, I won't turn tail;
I won't run amuck when the females chuck
Confetti in my ears
And cross me heart, love, I'll keep off the pale ale.
When we're off on our own
No more lah-di-bloody-dah
I promise, we just won't have the time
We won't have time for such,
Such fancy pantomimes.

My love life was as humble as my features when I
stumbled
On the jumble sale. Unbelievable,
The things that you can find there. They've got stuff
of every kind there
At the jumble sale.
I was down and out, I'd nowhere else to go,
I'd sown my oats, I'd flung my fling.
The parish hall was all lit up, its doors were wide.
I poked my nose inside,
Before I'd time to hide
The vicar asked me in.
Romance perchance prevails
At humdrum jumble sales.
With a jaded eye I eyed the faded piles of lumber
Of the jumble sale, rough and tumble sale
Where ladies of the village fight like visigoths for
pillage.
Dear old jumble sale.
But behind the cut glass, brass and pewter pots
The plaster pussy cats, the china gnomes
I saw a girl, a wild eyed butterfly
Junoesque but shy
And just the thing for my
For my mantelpiece at home.
Chick of the bric-a-brac
Pick of the vicar's knick-knacks
With a pounding pulse I skulked around the bulky
counters
Of the jumble sale, fumbling at bundles
Of those long-departed trousers, old pyjama-tops and
blouses
Found at jumble sales.
I'd not got the savoir faire, the flair,
I hardly dare look over at her stand.
But with determination which defies belief
All set to come to grief
I grit my snaggle teeth
And I took her by the hand.
One bob per objet d'art
Gratis and carte blanche my heart.
Iacta was my alea, my chips were down and numbered
At the jumble sale. But suddenly my tongue tied,
I just burbled, I just bumbled, I was sure my chance
had crumbled
At the jumble sale.
I just stood there in a funk, a dumbstruck booboo
Gawping at her pretty bibelots.
But then she smiled. Not much, but I knew then
I'd see her lips again,
Her bijoux and her gems
And her precious curios.
Perchance romance prevails,
So come to some humdrum jumble sales,
Jumble sales.

Joseph, Joseph, in your cattle stall,
Joseph, Joseph, what do you make of it all, make of it
all?
You and your working man's hands and your wrinkled
eyes:
How come that you understand? How come so wise?
How come that you show no surprise
When all around the snowy ground is golden tonight,
this frosty night?
How come that you know just who the baby is this winter
midnight?
Oh, Joseph, Joseph, in your cattle stall,
Joseph, Joseph, what do you make of it all?
Do you know these three Kings, just who they are:
Caspar and Melchior and Balthazar?
Do you know why they came so far
Or even why the air is full of angels tonight, this
frosty night?
And why your head is full of music on this winter
midnight?
Oh, Joseph, Joseph, in your cattle stall,
Joseph, Joseph, what do you make of it all?
You were so true for so long, so unafraid.
But nobody sings you any songs, no serenades.
And although your face is old and pale
Yet I for one will keep you in my mind's eye tonight,
this frosty night;
You're just the man that I want to remember on this
winter midnight.
Oh, Joseph, Joseph, in your cattle stall,
Joseph, Joseph, what do you make of it all, make of it

There once was an old captain who wished nothing more
Than to live again his voyages and walk by the
seashore.
A simple man, and a good man, but the bane of his life
Was his ill-tempered, bad-hearted bitch of a wife.
Though the jolly captain was plagued by her bile
He smoked his long pipe and he smiled upon her
tenderly.
He didn't like her much, but he’d loved her. Despite
her rough tongue
The whey-faced old nag-bag had been his pretty darling
once
She fell down her staircase, she fractured her neck.
She lay upon the linoleum in a black apoplexy.
Her baleful eyes bulged with unspeakable abuse:
It seems that her spleen had been overproducing
So the jolly captain carried her to bed.
"Close your poor eyes," he said, "sleep a little
peaceably".
He brought her fresh butter and cool watercress,
Violet and peppermint to soothe her heart's bitterness
From her death bed she said, "if you marry when I die
"I'll crawl from my coffin to haunt you vexatiously".
With a howl and a scowl, with a shudder and a shake
She spat out her peppermint and went to vex her maker.
Unhappy captain, so sad when she died,
He closed her wild eyes, and he cried a bit on the
Friday.
But he saw no good reason for wasting away,
So he married an apple-cheeked girl on the Saturday
Alas, jolly captain, you’re married too soon.
She'll come to torment you from underneath her
tombstone.
She'll scratch and she'll claw her way up from the
grave,
Hacking her way back again with furious fingernails.
"No," said the jolly captain, "she'll stay in her
place.
"She can scratch, she can scrape, till she's black in
the face.
"No, she won't come to haunt me and taunt me, I know,
"'Cause I buried her face downward, she's a long way to
"No, she won't come to haunt me and taunt me, I know,
"'Cause I buried her face downward, she's a long way to

Isabel makes love upon national monuments
With style and enthusiasm and anyone at all.
Isabel's done Stonehenge and the Houses of Parliament,
But so far little Isabel's never played the Albert
Hall.
Many a monolith has seen Isabel,
Her bright hair in turmoil, her breasts‚ surging swell.
But unhappy Albert, so far denied
The bright sight of Isabel getting into her stride.
The Forth Bridge, The Cenotaph, Balmoral and Wembley.
The British Museum and the House of Lords.
So many ticks in her National Trust catalogue,
But so far the Royal Albert Hall has not scored.
Countless cathedrals can now proudly show
Where Isabel's white shoulder blades have briefly
reposed.
Miserable Albert, still waiting for
The imprint of Isabel on his parquet floor.
In Westminster Abbey she lay upon a cold tombstone,
The meat in a sandwich of monumental love,
With old po-faced Wordsworth unblinking beneath
And a bright-eyed young Arch-Deacon breathless above.
Many a stony faced statue has flickered its eyes
And swayed to the rhythm of her little panting cries.
But oh! wretched Albert never yet has known
Isabel's pretty whinnying echo round his dome.
On the last night of the Promenades she waved to the
conductor
And there and then on the podium, with scarcely a
pause,
With a smile and a bow and a loud "Rule Britannia!"
He completed her collection to enormous applause.
Rapturous Albert now knows full well
He's captured forever elusive Isabel.
Prettily dishevelled but firmly installed
And faithfully for evermore to the Royal Albert Hall.
No more frantic scramblings up the dome of St. Pauls.
No more dank rambles on Hadrian's Wall.
With style and enthusiasm and anyone at all,

Where is Isabella with the lissom hips?
Where is Isabella with the silky thighs?
My Isabella with the hello lips,
Isabella with the goodbye eyes?
When I went round to sing my little songs to Isabella
My love, the Jezebel, was sat there listening to Bach.
A right silly pillock I looked with my old guitar, so
help me,
A right soft pillock I looked with my old guitar.
When I went round with fish and chips to eat with
Isabella
My love, the Jezebel, was sat there stuffing caviare.
A right silly pillock I looked with my cod and chips,
so help me,
A right soft pillock I looked with one of each twice.
A bicycle I bought as a Christmas box for Isabella
But my love, the Jezebel, had got herself a motor car.
A right silly pillock I looked with a lady's bike, so
help me,
A right soft pillock I looked with a lady's bike.
When I went round hot-foot to keep a date with
Isabella,
I found her with her arms around the swine who brings
the coal.
A right silly pillock I looked, with a little rosy
posy,
A right soft pillock I looked in a pin-stripe suit.
When I went round to batter out the brains of Isabella,
My love, the Jezebel, had caught a cold and passed
away.
And a right silly pillock I looked with a little cosh,
so help me,
A right soft pillock I looked with a little cosh.

If you come around to mourn for Grandad don't dress up
in black ‘cos
Although me Grandad's dead and buried, odds-on he'll be
back, yes.
Although they stuffed him in a coffin and read out the
will, and
Although he's six foot deep in darkness he'll never lie
still.
He's made of sterner stuff, he's not dead enough.
Angels, saints and seraphim
Please, please will you try to keep an eye
On him.
On his ninetieth birthday, Grandad went down for a
drink. Now
Me Grandad is a rabid dipso with a throat like a sink.
Drank himself toward the skyline and his friends to the
floor just
To prove how fit he was for boozing for ninety years
more.
Your pearly gates he'll climb when it's opening time.
Angels, saints and seraphim
You'll, you’ll find it hard to keep a guard
On him.
They brought him home upon a handcart with his legs in
the air. He
Was singing Rule Britannia backwards in his underwear.
Challenged all the county police force to a fight right
away, then
He offered to put the Ladies' Union in the family way.
Your crystal domes will shake when he makes his break
Angels, saints and seraphim
He'll give you the slip, so get a grip
On him.
The doctor lifted up an eyelid and pronounced him gone.
To judge from Grandad's finger signals the doctor was
wrong. They
Dressed him in his Sunday night-shirt, they combed out
his hair, but
They couldn't get my Grandad's boots off, he'd need
them up there.
Your silken wings he'll shed. He will paint Paradise
red.
Angels, saints and seraphim
Please don't expect that much respect
From him.
Even at the solemn moment he wouldn't behave, for
I heard him whistling in his coffin on his way to the
grave. He
Took off toward the New Jerusalem with his pinch of
salt. I
Distinctly heard him flatulating in his marble vault.
Your candles will be dimmed when he gets the wind.
Angels, saints and seraphim
Although he's old, although he's cold,
Keep a tight hold

It was a fine bay pony,
One of the north country kind,
With the bright blue trap going clippety-clappety,
Happily rattling behind his
Delicate little haunches.
She cried, oh! how she cried,
Leaning her head against the window pane,
Watching, day after day,
Awaiting some glimpse
Of him slowly climbing up
The lane between the stony
Walls that always lay between them.
It was a fine bay pony,
One of the north country kind,
With the bright blue trap going clippety-clappety,
Happily rattling behind his
Dancing little hoof steps.
She cried, oh! how she cried unbelievingly,
Holding her hands to her cheekbones,
When she saw him one day
Winding up the dale.
She went running down the yard
And out into the field
With opening arms for him to enter.
It was a fine bay pony,
One of the north country kind,
With the bright blue trap going clippety-clappety,
Happily rattling behind his
Dainty little fetlocks.
It was a fine bay pony,
One of the north country kind,
With the bright blue trap going clippety-clappety,
Happily rattling behind his

Up my, my family tree
There hangs my curious pedigree,
My long, my lurid ancestry -
The prancing phantoms and ghosts
Of my rude forefathers.
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they all perch to see
Up my, up my family tree.
Up my, my family tree,
No blue blood, no nobility;
No trace of aristocracy -
Except for Uncle Sebastian
Who once raped a duchess.
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they perch for all to see
Up my, up my family tree.
We've no ancestral halls,
No haughty portraits on our walls;
No family monuments at all -
Unless it's my cousin Sheila's
Stupendous cleavage.
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they perch for all to see
Up my, up my family tree.
My great-great-uncle Sam,
A very tranquil sort of man,
Could not afford his wife a pram -
He pushed his babies round the park
In a green wheelbarrow.
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they perch for all to see
Up my, up my family tree.
My Uncle Will, my Auntie May
Were very much in love, so they
Got married after some delay -
They dressed their kids up in white
When they both went legal.
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they perch for all to see
Up my, up my family tree.
When brother Richard was thirteen
He was a Boy Scout, keen and clean.
He got presented to the Queen -
And then he went and spoiled it all
When he offered her a Woodbine.
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they perch for all to see
Up my, up my family tree.
Let this be understood,
That our family name is mud,
Our sheep are black our cheques are dud -
But we survive! We're alive!
So it's up with the Thackrays!
Nevertheless, despite their sins,
Bless my kiths and bless my kins.
There they perch for all to see

Country bus, north country bus,
Clumsy and cumbersome, rumbustious,
Country bus, North Country bus,
Though you're a slow coach you're OK for us.
Though your cargo is confusion -
Sheepmen and cowgirls and chickens galore up the back -
No need to hurry:
We couldn't care less what the time may be.
And there's no call to worry -
If you smell a bit, so do we.
Villainous, malodorous
Country bus, north country bus,
Rollicking, frolicking, uproarious,
Country bus, North Country bus,
You’re rusty and you're dusty but you're OK for us.
Though your seats are rather Spartan
We've got the springs in our backsides to ride out your
bounce.
Though you may stumble
After the dance on a Sat’day night,
Backseat lovers don't grumble;
They seem to manage alright.
Amorous, scandalous.
Country bus, north country bus,
Lusty and rustic and impetuous,
Country bus, North Country bus,
Bog-trotting bumpkin, you're OK for us.
Though your progress is uncertain -
'Specially at night when the public house closes its
doors -
You tend to dodder,
Staggering home from The Bull Hotel.
We, we never bother,
'Cause we've got the staggers as well.
Glorious, notorious.
Country bus, north country bus
Grunting and chuntering, cantankerous,
Country bus, North Country bus,
But no other bus would be good enough for us.
Through the wild, the cruel winter
You get the coal in your eyes and the snow up your
nose.
But sooner or later
You will turn up in the village square
With daffodils in your gaiters
And pussy-willow in your hair.
Wait for us,
Wait for us,

Miss Caroline Diggeby-Pratte was at Roedean;
Her daddy is a Brigadier (a big wig).
Miss Caroline Diggeby-Pratte is seventeen
And she likes men who are sincere (jig-jig).
Caroline likes marzipan and pussycats.
Caroline's the latest in a very long line of
aristocratic Prattes.
Somebody may love you, Caroline, hopefully.
Caroline, oh, callow Caroline, I know it won't be me.
Caroline is so romantic
And she likes to walk alone on lonely sands,
Just so long as the champagne cocktail
And the glossy gossip columns are on hand.
Caroline likes daffodils and waterfalls.
She follows the social folderols,
The smarty parties, all the horsy balls.
Oh somebody may love you, Caroline, helplessly.
Caroline, oh, callow Caroline, you bet it won't be me.
Caroline would like a man of simple tastes
Who runs a sporty Porsche,
Who would give her jewels, and now and then a trace
Of elegant intercourse (of course).
But he would have to know what everybody knows
The moon shines out of Caroline's,
Out of Caroline's little turned-up nose.
Somebody may love you, Caroline, hopelessly.
Caroline, oh, callow Caroline, he'll love you
hopelessly.
Somebody will marry Caroline. God know what he will be.
Caroline, oh, callow Caroline, God knows it won't be

Through the bars of a large enclosure
The village ladies intently stared,
Where a gorilla with massive composure
Was impassively combing his hair.
They were shamelessly interested,
Eyeing devoutly a certain spot,
But my mother's especially requested
I refrain from telling you what.
Brother Gorilla!
The door of the circus lock-up,
Where the noble brute had been put,
By an administrational cock-up
Was unwisely left unshut
"I'm going to lose it at last," he cried,
Swinging lissomely out of his cage,
Referring, of course, to his chastity:
He was just at the difficult age
Brother Gorilla!
Those self-same ladies who previously
Had been licking their lips from afar
Did a bunk, which shows how devious
And whimsical women are.
In the path of the lovesick monkey
There were two who wouldn't budge:
A little old lady, all shrunken,
And a petty sessions judge.
Brother Gorilla!
The old girl said "It would be surprising
And unlikely in the extreme
If anyone found me appetising,
And beyond my wildest dreams!"
The judge intoned with tranquillity:
"To take me for a female ape
Would be the height of improbability".
Even judges make mistakes.
Brother Gorilla!
It would be curious and uncanny,
Say, if the choice were up to you
To ravish a judge or a granny
And you didn't know which to do.
If I were in such a position
And the choice had got to be mine,
I'd beg the old lady's permission
But go for grandma every time.
Brother Gorilla!
Though the gorilla is very proficient
In the role of a paramour
His mental equipment's deficient
And his eyesight's awfully poor.
With a Palaeolithic leer
He gave the old lady the miss
And, grabbing the judge by the ear,
Gave him an introductory kiss.
Brother Gorilla!
In time the gorilla's desires
Were more or less gratified.
The judge, being rather biased,
Couldn't see the funny side.
He was kicking and screaming and wailing
When his moment of truth had come,
Like those wretches he orders daily
To be taken away and hung.

It was a grand upstanding bantam cock,
So brisk and stiff and spry,
With springy step and jaunty plume
And a purposeful look in his eye,
In his little black blinking eye, he had.
I took him to the coop and introduced him
To my seventeen wide-eyed hens.
He tupped and he tupped as a hero tups
And he bowed from the waist to them all, and then
He upped and he tupped 'em all again, he did.
And then upon the peace of me ducks and me geese
He rudely did intrude.
With glazed eyes and open mouths
They bore it all with fortitude
And a little bit of gratitude, they did.
He jumped my giggling guinea fowl
And forced his attentions upon
My twenty hysterical turkeys and
A visiting migrant swan.
But the bantam thundered on, he did.
He ravished my fan-tailed pigeons and
Me lily-white columbines,
And while I was locking up the budgerigar
He jumped my parrot from behind;
She was sitting on me shoulder at the time.
And all of a sudden with a gasp and a gulp
He clapped his hands to his head,
Fell flat on his back with his toes in the air.
My bantam cock lay dead
And the vultures circled overhead, they did.
What a champion brute; what a noble cock;
What a way to live and to die.
I was digging him a grave to save his bones
From the hungry buzzards in the sky
When the bantam opened up a sly little eye.
He gave me a grin and a terrible wink,
The way that rapists do.
He said, "You see them big daft buggers up there?
They'll be down in a minute or two;

He was small and baggy-trousered, he was nondescript
and shy,
But in his breast there burned a sacred flame,
For women melted and surrendered when they looked into
his eyes.
(Little Billy Kershaw was the name, by the way,
He worked as a country ploughman, so they say.)
Oh Lothario and Casanova, mighty Don Juan,
Those legendary goats of days of yore -
Billy was better, with his eyes closed, on one leg and
with no hands!
(A trick which he could actually perform, by the way,
Spectacular, but dodgy, so they say.)
He never did it for the profit of it, never for
applause,
Only the silvery laughter that it caused.
There was a difference in that Billy Kershaw never
picked the best,
The beautiful, the golden ones that most men would,
But the ugly ones, the poorest, the despised, the
dispossessed.
(Where else would a hunchback get a cuddle, by the way?
Harelips can kiss, or so they say.)
And so the shop-girl with the whiskers, or the limping
shepherdess,
The squinting barmaid (her with the pocky skin),
Even the horse-like countess with the teeth and meagre
breasts
(Which in fact had often harboured Billy's chin, by the
way,
Haughty but snug, so they say).
He never did it for the profit of it, never for
applause,
Only the common comfort that it caused.
Many a poor distracted Catholic, rating Billy over
Lourdes,
Came smiling down his staircase, all her frenzy gone.
And the husband, far from angry, would be chuffed that
she was cured
(And buy him a pint in the local later on, by the way;
Horses for courses, as they say).
He responded to the colonel's widow's desperate appeal
In the colonel's house upon the colonel's tiger skin,
And in the potter's shop, the potter's wife upon the
potter's wheel
(Which was steadily continuing to spin, by the way,
A right tour de force, so they say).
But never ever for the profit of it, never the
applause,
Only the passing happiness it caused.
But soon the news of Billy Kershaw and his life-
enhancing powers
Became across the county widely known,
And by his cottage gate the coachloads waited patiently
for hours.
(The drivers made a bundle going home, by the way,
Their caps were full of silver, so they say.)
And the village did a roaring trade in teas and
souvenirs,
In ash trays and the local watercress.
Until Billy, disillusioned, simply ups and disappears.
(Leaving no forwarding address, by the way,
Could be anywhere at all, or so they say.)
But it was not for the profit of it, not for the
applause,
Only the consolation that it caused.
If there should be a sad, neglected, wretched woman in
your life,
It could well be that Billy's near at hand;
Perhaps your auntie or your daughter, or your mother or
your wife.
(And when did you last see your grandma, by the way?
No genuine case is ever turned away.)
He's no rascal, he's no charlatan, no mountebank, no
snob;
Whoever you are, he'll treat you just the same.
He is small and baggy-trousered, and he does a tidy
job.
(Little Billy Kershaw is the name, by the way;
He worked as a country ploughman, so they say.)
But never ever for the profit of it, never the
applause,
Only the common comfort that it caused.
If you find that Billy's ballad is extravagant, or
trite,
Offensive, irrelevant, or untrue,
That may well be, but here's a moral which will make us
feel all right
(A moral which may well apply to you, by the way;
Takes one to know one, as they say).
If you're ugly, if you're weak, or meek, or queer, form
a queue
And the rest of us will travel from afar
And systematically we'll do to you what Billy used to
do -
But more regular and always twice as hard, by the way,